


Bearable

by loversandmadmen



Category: Avengers (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Tony Stark makes cool stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:05:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1990848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loversandmadmen/pseuds/loversandmadmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting caught in a blast during battle, Clint Barton wakes in the hospital to find that he has severe hearing loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Clint registered was pain. 

The second thing Clint registered was what had to be the effects of some truly top-notch painkillers. Not that they were doing a great job at the moment – or maybe there was only so far the best painkillers could go. Maybe his pain level had reached the point of no return, crossed that line from “bearable” to “un”. 

Whatever the case, he made a mental note to find out the name of these particular drugs for future reference. 

_Okay. Take stock. Still got all the limbs? Check. Okay. Limbs all moving? Kinda. Maybe. Sort of numb and floaty. I’ll go back to that later. Pretty sure I still have a nose. Hello, mouth. Eyes? Hair is questionable. Can’t feel hair. Can’t see hair. Is hair there? Seriously, are these meds even legal?_

Clint managed to open his eyes into slits, having a little trouble keeping them from rolling back in his head for a few minutes. His fourth attempt to open his eyes completely was successful, and he concentrated hard on trying to focus them. 

Hospital room. Looked pretty normal. TV mounted on wall. Table on wheels to the left, under a window. Dark outside. Back to table – big cup of water with one of those ridged straws in the lid. Water. Water is good. Water was needed. Clint opened his mouth to try and ask for water, but nothing came out. Still too weak. He turned his head ever so slightly to the right and felt the sore stiffness of a body that hadn’t moved in at least a day. 

Natasha. Nat.

Natasha Romanoff, one of the world’s greatest spies and Clint’s best friend, sat curled in an uncomfortable-looking chair, fast asleep. Clint had never seen her quite like that. As close as they were, and as often as they had both let their guards down around each other, Natasha never quite lost that air of professionalism. They could be on the couch eating popcorn and playing Uno and she would still have that poise, that something about her that meant she was ready for anything at any time. Right now, though, she looked like the little girl she had never gotten to be, red hair falling over the back of the chair, arms crossed, face relaxed. 

Clint tried to make some kind of sound to rouse her, but couldn’t seem to make it happen. He settled for taking a very deep, long breath, hoping that would be enough for the super-spy. 

It was. Of course it was. Natasha snapped awake at once, instantly assuming her usual role. Even without her tactical uniform, she could be utterly terrifying when in spy mode. A split second later, her entire demeanor changed, and she softened considerably as she looked over at Clint. She grabbed at a wire near his hand and pushed a button, which Clint deduced would summon someone. She was saying something, but Clint was obviously too stoned to make it out. He just nodded a little. 

A nurse came to the door and Natasha turned to her, saying…something. It all sounded muffled. Clint focused on trying to be more present, to fight the dizzying effects of his painkillers. Natasha put a hand on the only part of Clint’s arm that wasn’t covered in bandages and continued to talk, though Clint didn’t even bother trying to respond. By the time the doctor arrived, he had managed to wake up a bit and move a little more. The doctor, a middle-aged woman, was talking to him, but Clint was only getting a few syllables here and there. 

“…ain…en…ale?” asked the doctor. That couldn’t be right. 

“Can’t…” Clint croaked. Or tried to. He felt the word, but couldn’t hear it. 

Wait. 

Wait, no. 

“Can’t…hear it…” Clint tried again. 

Both the doctor and Natasha stared at him for a moment. Natasha’s grip tightened very slightly, and she moved so that she was directly in Clint’s line of sight. She leaned close to him and spoke very clearly, pointing to her mouth. 

“Can you hear me?” she asked. Clint barely managed to make it out. 

“Almost can’t,” said Clint, panting from the effort to speak. “Pain…killers.”

Natasha turned her head away to say something to the doctor, who nodded to the nurse. Wait, when had the nurse come back? Clint hadn’t noticed her. The nurse fiddled with something near Clint’s unoccupied arm and held the bottle of water out for him to sip. Clint drained quite a bit of the water in one go, just realizing how dry his throat was. After about five minutes, Clint’s mind began to clear a bit, and the distancing effect of the drugs wore off somewhat. 

Of course, the trade-off was that the pain in his body intensified quite a bit. He had been injured enough times and in creative enough ways to have some notion of what had happened to him. Broken ribs for sure, at least three sprains, and not a few burns – just for starters. His hands seemed mercifully intact save for some stitches in his right palm. Good. Shooting still an option. 

The doctor was typing something on her tablet. She turned it around to reveal large text that read: 

MR. BARTON, I BELIEVE YOUR HEARING WAS DAMAGED IN THE BLAST. 

Clint gave a “no kidding” sort of expression that made his head hurt. Natasha’s mouth was pressed into a tight line as they both waited to see what the doctor would type next. 

WE NEED TO CHECK FOR PHYSICAL DAMAGE AND RUN TESTS. MAY NOT BE PERMANENT. 

Clint nodded. 

I WILL ORDER TESTS FOR TOMORROW. TRY TO GET SLEEP TONIGHT. CALL BUTTON IF NEEDED. 

Natasha thanked the doctor, who left along with the nurse. Clint tried to steady his panic, but it wasn’t terribly successful. The idea of a trained agent being less one sense was unthinkable, and Clint was not the type to take to being benched easily. He tried not to imagine the worst, but…

Sensing his fear, naturally, Natasha pulled her chair up to the bed and sat down. She spoke so he could understand. 

“Clint. You will be okay. You are always okay.”

Clint could only choke out a weak “Nat…”

And he couldn’t hear his own voice saying it.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing about hospitals is that they don’t make a lot of sense. 

In theory, they are meant to be a place where the injured and weary can rest, relax, and heal, all while receiving gentle and effective care. In reality, they are places where patients can get all of two hours of drug-induced sleep at a stretch, where pain invades every part of a body, where the care they receive may be plenty effective but causes as much stress and heartache as it seeks to heal. 

Not only was Clint going through a barrage of tests for his ruined ears, he was being smeared with salves, redressed with fresh bandages, and administered pain medication on a regular basis. The days blurred together in an endless stream of muffled conversations, bland hospital food, and pain – always the pain. 

On the fifth day, he was given the news that his hearing loss looked to be permanent. 

On the sixth day, he was able to get up and walk around the ward for a while. 

On the seventh day, Natasha brought pizza. 

On the eighth day, Clint didn’t want to see anyone.


	3. Chapter 3

Eleven days after being admitted, Clint was finally in good enough condition to leave the hospital. Natasha stood by the entrance, waiting for Clint to be wheeled out, leaning casually against her SHIELD car. A couple of teenaged boys stood gawking nearby, but it was unclear whether it was the gorgeous spy or the gorgeous car getting their attention. As soon as he was allowed, Clint hopped out of the wheelchair and made his uneven way to the car. Natasha didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She just opened the door for Clint and let him slide into the passenger side. Clint still couldn’t get over the fact that he only barely heard the car door close. It was an unsettling sort of feeling, knowing that it should have been loud and crisp, but hearing it as muffled, as though his head were under water.

Still dealing with the aftermath of some fairly serious head trauma, Clint found that Natasha’s skillful but far too fast driving made him feel a little ill. He cracked his window and closed his eyes, letting the cool air wash over him and trying so hard to hear more than just a dull roar. They reached Clint’s Brooklyn apartment in record time and made their way up the narrow stairwell, stopping halfway for a moment so Clint could catch his breath. 

“I’m fine,” he muttered grumpily when Natasha tried to hook her arm under his for support. 

Clint leaned heavily against the wall while Natasha unlocked his door, her face impassive. He made his way to the beaten-up couch and collapsed onto it, using the back cushion as a pillow. Natasha brought him a glass of water and two painkillers, right on the doctor-ordered schedule. Clint only took one of them, ignoring Natasha’s raised eyebrow, and adjusted into a more comfortable position. 

“Need anything?” Natasha asked slowly. Clint shook his head. “I’m going to stay for a while.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m going to make food.”

Clint rolled his eyes, ignoring the discomfort it caused, and lay back. His apartment was usually somewhat quiet, not being a street-facing one, but it was never like this. This was oppressive, smothering silence that made his head feel closed off, the way a bad head cold does. The feeling of being cut off from the world was alarmingly, overwhelmingly frightening, in a way he had not been frightened since he was a boy. 

He was not aware of how tired he had been, let alone that he had fallen asleep, until he was gently shaken awake. Startled and disoriented, he had swung somewhat clumsily to hit whoever was doing the waking, but Natasha expertly deflected without so much as blinking. 

“Hey,” she said. “I’m going to go. Are you okay?”

Clint panted for a second, squeezing his eyes to try and force himself to wake up faster. He pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded. Natasha waited until he was looking at her again to speak. 

“If you need anything…” she said, holding up her phone. 

Clint nodded again, and Natasha handed him a folded piece of paper. Clint frowned at it and looked to her for an explanation. 

“Read it. Bye.”

And with a little clap on Clint’s less injured shoulder, Natasha was gone. Clint opened the paper to find a neatly-written letter with a daily schedule on it. Natasha had programmed his phone alarm to vibrate at various times of day, reminding him to take medication and eat. There was also a note at the bottom of a more personal nature: 

_SHIELD has worked more than a few miracles in the past. Hang in there._

Clint hoped he could.


	4. Chapter 4

Clint more or less holed up in his apartment for the next few weeks, emerging only to make quick trips out for more coffee or to hit the Laundromat. He wore old headphones to avoid having to try and make conversation with anyone, and his only contact with actual humans came in the form of Natasha. She would occasionally turn up to pointedly leave groceries on the counter and hand him gigantic bottles of water, ask a general “how are you” kind of question, and leave. She knew better than to stay for long with the way Clint had been feeling, so their only real conversations had taken place via text message. They didn’t really talk about anything in particular, just checked in every so often. It felt awkward. 

Clint had made a follow-up appointment with a doctor (okay, so Natasha did it for him) to have more screenings. He never did like taking tests he wasn’t sure he would pass. On the day of his appointment, he got a text exactly two hours before he was supposed to be there: 

_I know you’re considering not going to your appointment, so I’m coming to get you. Don’t bother running because you know I’ll find you. – N_

Clint had received this message just as he had put his hand on the doorknob in preparation of finding a hiding place. It was spooky sometimes how well he and Natasha knew each other. Clint groaned and sat back down on his sofa, knowing full well that Natasha would make more than good on her promise to hunt him down if he didn’t go to the doctor. He didn’t much like the idea of another hospital stay anytime soon. 

So he sat, and he waited, and he watched TV – with the captions on, which was weird, and distracting, and quite often obviously incorrect. Clint wondered for a moment whether the people in charge of the closed captions actually knew what the hell they were doing or if they just went with whatever sounded close to what the actors were saying. He then wondered what other things in his life would now have to just be settled on. The job, for one. No doubt about that. 

Natasha used her key and picked Clint up. As usual, they didn’t really talk. They just were. Clint pressed the back of his hand against the door of Natasha’s car to feel the humming he could not hear. Natasha looked at him, opened her mouth to speak, and thought better of it. She pinched his upper arm instead, a little gesture the two of them shared for no particular reason. It carried a lot of meaning and could be many things. Today, it obviously meant “you’ll be okay”. 

The doctor’s tests confirmed that Clint had lost roughly 80% of his hearing. After learning that, Clint couldn’t even try to focus on what the doctor was saying, instead allowing Natasha to take notes on her phone and ask the necessary questions. He felt entirely numb to the whole situation, and the near-silence of his surroundings did little to calm his nerves. Yet another appointment was made, this time to fit Clint for the hearing aids he would certainly need in order to live his life somewhat normally. Clint managed to keep his emotions in check until they reached the door leading to the parking lot, which he practically punched through to escape into the cool air. He felt Natasha’s hand on his shoulder, gently at first, but when he batted it off, she replaced it with a painfully strong grip that he couldn’t ignore.

“Calm down,” Natasha said, forcing him to look at her. “Stop.”

Clint tried to push through Natasha, but her spy instincts kicked in and she managed to knock him against her car in such a way that he came to his senses slightly. Natasha took out her phone and showed Clint a text conversation between herself and Tony Stark. 

_Getting details now. –N_

_80% hearing loss confirmed. – N_

_Getting fitted for hearing aids on the 12th. – N_

_Cancel it and send me a scan of his ears. – T_

_Plans? – N_

_Have you ever seen ‘Pimp My Ride’, Agent? Definite plans. Swing by and I’ll show you. – T_

“So Tony Stark is going to design my hearing aids?” asked Clint incredulously. 

“Why not?” asked Natasha. “Come on.”

Natasha gave Clint a little half-smile and jerked her head toward the car. Somewhere between curious and weary, Clint got in. There was a traffic jam in the upper 70’s, leaving them sitting almost perfectly still. Clint took the opportunity to try and talk. 

“So you told Stark,” he said. 

Natasha sighed and turned her head toward Clint. “Yeah.”

“Without asking me.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m kind of surprised that I’m surprised.”

Natasha didn’t have anything to say to that. Though she was an expert in control, Clint saw the ghost of a sad expression on her face for all of a microsecond before she set her jaw and turned to look at the traffic jam. Clint reached over and gave her upper arm a pinch. This time, it meant “we’re fine.”


	5. Chapter 5

Tony Stark looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but he was still buzzing with excitement as he showed off his design for state-of-the-art hearing aids for Clint. Clint couldn’t even hope to follow a word of Stark’s rambling – even if he could hear him, all the technobabble was impossible to comprehend. He settled for looking intently at the projections and reading what he could understand. They appeared to be part hearing aid, part communicator, with a rechargeable power source. Stark started to go on about the different settings, and Clint stepped closer to the projection. 

It was odd, like looking into a crystal ball. This was his future, relying on something artificial to provide what he had once had naturally. The hearing aids were designed to be sleek and subtle, fitting in rather than behind the ears, which made Clint feel a bit better. It wasn’t so much that he was ashamed of the situation, he just knew he would feel better about it being less obvious. Fewer glances, fewer comments – always a good thing. 

Stark offered drinks, and Natasha and Clint gladly accepted them. The scotch was a lot richer than Clint was accustomed to, since he was normally more of a cheap, watery beer drinker, and he made sure to savor it. Natasha and Stark sat a bit awkwardly, making small talk together and trying to include Clint. It was hard to keep up, though, and frustrating for all involved. Finally, Clint just leaned back in the chair and sighed. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, probably too quietly. “You can talk. I’ll catch up once I can hear you.”

“Two days,” said Stark, and he wrote it down when Clint frowned. 

Clint gave as true a smile as he could manage, accepted a second scotch, and settled back to drink in utter silence.


	6. Chapter 6

Stark delivered on his promise a full eight hours early. Donning his just-for-show headphones, Clint took the subway to Stark Tower. He wondered if he would ever get used to feeling the subway, but not hearing it, then supposed that if Stark was as good as he said he was, that may not be an issue. For the first time in a while, Clint felt a bit optimistic about the whole situation. 

Stark was practically vibrating with excitement when he showed Clint the finished product. Clint couldn’t catch a word being said, but he imagined that at least one of them had to be “BEHOLD!”

“Go ahead,” said Stark, handing Clint the hearing aids. 

They were so small and light, Clint worried he might snap them in two trying to put them in. Thankfully, they settled right into his ears and stayed there, perfect fits thanks to the scans Natasha took. It felt a bit odd, having something blocking his ear canal, almost a little confining. 

“Ready?” asked Stark. 

Clint nodded and clicked on the hearing aids. 

“Whoa,” said Clint, and he wobbled a little. 

It was as though his head had been stuffed with wet cotton for the past few weeks, then very suddenly cleared. Overwhelmingly, sound returned to Clint’s ears in one instant rush. Stark clapped a hand on Clint’s shoulder to steady him.

“Too much?” he asked, and Clint heard it. 

“N-no, no, it’s fine, it’s just…loud. Really loud,” said Clint. He became giddy for a moment, grinning like an idiot and laughing. “Wow.”

“Let’s test ‘em out,” said Stark. 

For the next hour, they tried out the settings on the hearing aids. Clint could hear speech clearly up close and fairly well even at a moderate distance. He fiddled with the settings to block noises coming from behind him and talked through the comm for a solid ten minutes, positively gleeful. Stark smiled, proud of his creation as always. It wasn’t a perfect solution – sounds were tinny, and Clint still had to rely on lip reading a bit to fill in some gaps, and the comm distorted voices somewhat, but still, he could hear. Setting down a mug on a glass table was loud enough to be somewhat startling after nearly a month of almost complete silence. 

“Stark, this…” Clint couldn’t find words. 

“I know. I’m very talented,” said Stark. 

Clint picked up some papers and rustled them, relishing the sharp sound. Behind him, Tony poured a drink, and he heard it. He accepted the glass offered to him, smiled as they clinked their drinks together, and laughed again. 

“Thank you. Really,” said Clint. 

“Not a problem,” said Stark. “Wanna shoot some stuff?”

Clint hadn’t touched a bow and arrow since the day of the blast. His injuries had healed enough that he felt ready, and to be honest, he felt incomplete after such a long time without firing an arrow. Stark led him to the elevator and down to his incredible gym. Clint whistled when he saw the gleaming floor, full of all sorts of equipment, some of which he had never seen before. 

“You know, I know you have more money than God, and yet I’m still surprised every time I see just what it can buy,” said Clint. 

Stark gestured to a section of the gym that featured three targets and a few sets of bows and arrows. They weren’t exactly what Clint was accustomed to, but his own bow was at home. He selected the next best thing, grabbed an arrow, and took aim. The sound of the bowstring tensing and releasing was more beautiful than anything he had heard that day – except, perhaps, the sound of a perfect bullseye.


	7. Chapter 7

“Need a little help here!”

Natasha ran at breakneck speed through the alley, pausing to duck behind a dumpster and grab her gun. The escapees from SHIELD’s most secure prison continued their pursuit of her, one of them throwing fireballs as he caught up. Natasha managed to clip one in the shoulder, but three more were catching up. She continued to run, her boots pounding the pavement, her mind calculating several escape routes and combat outcomes in mere seconds. 

“Hawkeye! You got your ears on or what? I’m heading right toward you!” she shouted into her communicator. 

“I hear you,” said Clint. “Two seconds.”

“That’s about all you’ve got. Make them count.”

Clint clicked the setting on his hearing aids and zeroed in on the sound of the approaching fugitives. Closer…closer…closer…

Clint aimed an explosive arrow and fired, relishing the sound of the arrow’s release and the bowstring’s twang. He heard the sound of his hit and smiled. 

“Gotcha.”


End file.
